Cat's Paw
by La Flamingo
Summary: Heroes, villains, victims, perpetrators...all played by him, it is in this and only this betrayal that they are one. [PostHush, Spoilers]. Series of short vignettes.
1. Hush Little Baby, Don't You Cry

**A/N: **I'm not a real comic book junkie, but as it happens earlier last month I happened to stumble across the Batman story arc "Hush." I was really impressed the depth and intensity all the characters were given, and also the darkness of the whole plotline. It was interesting, and, as such, I thought I might write a few vignettes on many of the key characters involved.

However, I only read the second book (I think), so some of my plot points might be a little bit off scale. It that's the case, kindly tell me.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters within this story or anything else associated with them. It's all Warner Brothers and DC comic's baby, not mine.

Hush's story is the first of eight, following with the Joker, Clayface, Catwoman, Harley, Tim Drake and Bats.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

** Hush Little Baby, Don't You Cry...**

_(Hush)_

He's hated Bruce since they were boys.

Bruce never knew it–still doesn't know it–but Thomas has a hatred for him that nearly rivals that of his now (fortunately) deceased parents.

It might've been jealousy–maybe it still as–at Bruce's fortune, his intelligence, his looks...but Thomas knows that at the root of everything, his hatred for Bruce stems from his father saving the parents–the mother.

He had despised them, planned out the perfect murder and the perfect life following afterwards only to have it taken right out from under him. The beautiful dreamworld had been stolen by a stupidly courageous doctor who thought that it was his _mission _to save the Elliots.

Oh, Thomas hated the Waynes and Bruce for that. Even after his mother eventually died–and Bruce's father and mother ironically afterwards–Thomas knew that his thirst for revenge was not even close to being quenched. The Waynes' death wasn't even half of what Thomas wanted from Bruce. Not even close.

So Thomas schemed. Day in, day out, from age ten to twelve to sixteen, Thomas brewed up a plan for his revenge, waiting for the opportune moment to start moving.

It finally crystallized. By the time Thomas was seventeen, he knew exactly what he'd do.

High school graduation came, and later, college. Harvard classes, six grueling years of medical practice...Thomas Elliot became _the _Dr. Thomas Elliot, and in this step he became the very person that Bruce might've been had his parents not been so brutally–Thomas spits on the word–stolen from him. No one–not even that 'great detective' Batman–would suspect him of being anything else but a well-mannered and incredibly successful man and surgeon.

It's irony.

And Thomas loves irony.

Especially now.

Seated in the rotting corpse that the Joker and his dependent-personality girlfriend call their home, with Poison Ivy lounging in one of the far chairs and Clayface blinking in a mask that will only be his temporarily, Thomas knows that his entire scheme with these always-failing 'super-villains' is indeed ironic.

They all are going to back stab each other, all going to lie, cheat and steal and in the end try to kill each other for the glory. It's how it always goes with the scum and how it always will go. Chances are, even though this entire scheme is _his _brainchild, they'll try to knock him off first and get credit.

Right now they're promising alliance. They're sitting at the table with their dangerous smiles and ice-cold eyes and telling each other that they'll guard each others backs no matter what the cost. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, they all say, promising protection.

The irony is, they're all bull-shitting each other and they know it.

Thomas realized long before he befriended these pathetic excuses for humans that they'd try to kill him off within the first days if they could. He had–like any good strategist–anticipated it long before this very meeting and made sure to net everything into place. No dangerous variable was left out of the equation, no lingering possibility of failure hidden in the corner.

Thomas is thorough. He does his homework.

They will all fall before he goes down. He has made sure of it in every one of his plans, and has become almost certain that this revenge–this sweet, sweet revenge–will play out exactly like he wants it.

Bruce Wayne, and the poorly disguised alter-self as Batman, will die, and with them both all the villains and heroes that continued to keep the men (man?) legends will perish, too.

_It's payback, Bruce, _he tells himself quietly as the Joker cracks a knock-knock joke and Harley laughs hysterically

_Payback for the fortune and life I dreamed of._

Poison Ivy makes kissing noises at the Clown Prince and he freezes.

_Payback for what I failed to get._.

Nygma drums his fingers on the edge of the table and watches Thomas quietly.

_ Payback for everything that I wanted to be but you took_.

"It's about time we had a genius around here," the Joker says, still watching Poison Ivy warily out of the corner of his eye. He smiles with those disgusting yellow teeth before continuing. "I was beginning to think we were all out."

_This is payback for everything. _

Thomas smiles behind his bandages and bares his teeth.

"Oh," he says, "but you're never out of geniuses. You just have to know where to find them."

_Payback for it all._

Irony.

...yes, Thomas loves irony.


	2. Killing Joke

**Killing Joke**

_( the Joker)_

Death was supposed to be a lot more glamorous than this.

A darkened alley, reeking of filth and piss.

Trash underneath his broken body.

Blood–his blood--splattered over the walls and ground like some fucked-up Pollack painting.

Him whimpering. Gasping for the violence to stop and insisting–for once in his life–that he was innocent.

Yeah. Death was sure-as-hell supposed to be more glamorous than this.

He realizes now, choking on blood and using his tongue to feel the edges of more than a few broken and busted teeth, that he's been played. From the opera stick-up on--or maybe even earlier--he had been merely a pawn in a chess-game to which he had no control nor knowledge of the other pieces.

The fact he was merely a cat's-paw disgusts him almost as much as his insistence to Batsy that he's innocent. Never in his life did he imagine that _this _would be how he would go out, in the crack of neck cartilage snapping and bones breaking and then darkness.

Never.

The stick-up itself had gone–as always–relatively well. Harley did her part in typical Harley fashion, and he played his role with the usual elegance bestowed upon him. The trap had been set, and the Joker knew from the moment he pointed the gun at the Blondie and told the man to cough up that necklace that Bats would take the bait hook, line and sinker.

...but it was there, in the absolution that Batsy wouldn't pass up a chance to get him, that he made an error. He understands that now.

Something went wrong. As things always go wrong, there was one variable he had failed to take into account and it blew everything to shit. And it wasn't necessarily Blondie pursuing him–no, Hush had told them all that it was part of the plan–but what followed afterwards that told him he was fucked.

Running down the alley, stopping in the corner of the darkness.

Listening. Barely breathing.

Looking down and then seeing Blondie right _there, _dead body still oozing blood.

And then seeing the gun.

The Joker may act like an idiot, but everyone knows that he's not. One of the few members of this ragtag group of heathens who IS certifiably a cold-blooded killer, _HE _is usually the one that calls the plays. To go the other way around is insanity. Most certainly the way to make sure that the Joker will hunt you down and kill you himself.

But there he was, cornered in the back of an alley with a dead man and a gun near his foot.

He had been framed.

And he had a feeling that the Bat would take it very, very, very personally.

Sure, he had paralyzed Batgirl and tried to drive the Commissioner to insanity. But those people had eventually moved on. Batgirl might not be around, but Joker knew that she hadn't given up the fight. The commissioner, too, continued to stick with his job in the 'battle' for 'justice'.

But Robin's death was different. Batgirl and Comish?

Adults.

Robin?

A boy. A boy who he had shot fully understanding what it would do to the Bat, fully knowing that pulling the trigger and wiping the boy out of the Bat family would drive Batsy to madness.

A boy the Joker had shot to drive his point home.

_You're fighting a losing battle, Batman. Always losing. _

Evil wouldn't go away if you threw it back in the revolving door nutjob of Arkham. If anything, Arkham was a mere respite from the bruises and broken teeth and bones. The time where one could get themselves together and come back even stronger and more dangerous.

The system was broken. Both the Bat and the Joker knew that.

It was only the Bat that kept believing in it.

...until now, that is.

There was a rage that Joker could _feel_, actually _feel, _coming off the man as he flew down the narrow corridor, jaw clenched and posture very, very dangerous.

He only had to look at the gun, the body and then the Joker to put two and two together, and when he did, the Joker knew he had reached the end of his time.

There would be no mercy.

No court hearings.

No 'insanity' verdicts.

He was going to die.

The first blow didn't hurt nearly as much as the second. It had been the mainly an effort on Batsy's part to rein himself in, to control himself.

The second one? Not as pulled, by the hate was stronger.

By the third punch, by the time that the hit landed and the Joker felt his body leave the ground and fly, he realized that the Bat wasn't pulling anymore.

Their fights had always been more of great dramas than anything else. Batsy stood as the dark angel of good, the Joker the spawn of Satan, forever battling in order to protect or ruin what they cared most about.

Only the Joker gave it his all to kill Batsy.

Only the Bat restrained from murdering, and for this the Joker both hated and admired him.

Hated him because he hadn't broken yet, hadn't succumbed the insanity that so literally defined the Joker as who he was.

Admired him because hell, Mr. J was still alive and kicking.

And you had to marvel at his control.

At least, the earlier discipline.

Couldn't, though, say the same thing presently.

The Bat stands over him, righteous hatred and disgust rolling off him in waves. Gripping his neck like a vise, the man leans down until they are only inches apart and squeezes.

The killing joke should come any minute now. Any minute that last leer, last pun, last insult should slip from ol' Batsy's lips and sentence him to death.

As it is, he is dying. The blood in his mouth and on his face, spilling into one of his eyes and blinding him in a red haze, assures him that there will be no mercy. For Batgirl, Robin and the commissioner, there had been the barest of leniency. But now?

No such thing.

"I will kill you," the Bat hisses, voice low and colder than ice. "Break your neck and wipe you off this earth." He pushes more, emphasizing his point.

Frantic, seeing the dark tunnel looming beyond his vision, the Joker tries to grip at the hands severing his windpipe. He looks up into those opaque lenses, those eyes that never tell him anything accept that he will lose, and he begs.

Mr. J begs for his life.

"I didn't do it," he tries to wheeze. "I swear to you–"

"LIAR!" the Bat snarls. "Always lies!" He leans down closer.

"But not this time. You're not escaping this time, not going to get back into Arkham only to get out and _take_"–he shakes the Joker sharply, and Mr. J feels his neck crack–"all that I have from me."

"Not this time. Not ever."

The Joker's death looms in front of him in a red haze and the dark shadow he always thought would keep him alive. It looms at the back of the black tunnel, glimmering in white and gray and green.

Death was supposed to be more glamorous than this.

A lot more.

* * *

**A/N: **Second part of eight. Hope you enjoyed and many thanks to reviewer **Makota. **I'm really glad you liked the story, and I hope this second chapter lives up to the first.

I obviously changed a few things in the plotline, but I hope that no one here is offended.

Thanks for your time,

La Flamingo


	3. Molded Like Clay

**Molded Like Clay**

_(Clayface)_

If he only had known the name.

It would've been enough to drive the Bat to madness.

There should've been a _name _connected to the face he was posing as. On the outside, he was the older version of the second–now very dead–Robin, but inside there was no identity to which Matt could play.

And Matt Hagen had been an actor for a very long time. It was in his blood, in his bones, and he knew that if he had been given the specifics of this scene, it would've come around beautifully.

But there was no such luck.

He had to improvise.

And he did so badly.

They've all heard what happened to the second Robin–Jason Todd. The Joker didn't brag about it much to too many people, but eventually word got around that the Clown Prince had managed to kill off one of the Bat Clan.

And he killed him good.

The reality is that no one wants to piss of the Bat. All of them–from Poison Ivy to the Riddler to even himself–have an instinctive fear of the man, knowing from their own experiences and others that it doesn't take much to make the battle suddenly a lot more dangerous.

Then again, though, no one here is the Joker. No one here is a big a monster as the Clown Prince and quite frankly, none of them want to be. While they all have their own brand of insanity, all of them willing to touch off some base of madness to get what they want, none of them go to the lengths as Joker.

Not to the point of killing a boy.

Clayface fights now in the form of a dead boy–or maybe man–now, and as he does so, ducking neatly under the Bat's rage-fueled blows and taunting him as only the Riddler told him how, he realizes that the death of that boy a long, long time ago killed what little naivete the Dark Knight had.

They say that rage started the Bat, and they say that rage will end it.

Maybe this will be the time.

"You are weak, Old Man," he finally says, pivoting to the side as the Batman bares his teeth and strikes out. "I'll always be ahead of you, always win and _you know it._"

Another punch. Clayface barely moves out of the way before a gloved fist nails him under the chin. He grunts, feeling his teeth bite down on his lip, before swinging back.

Retaliation. The Bat spins and kicks him hard in the stomach, momentarily knocking the wind from him. Clayface snarls.

"Old," he says, breathing heavily. "That's all you're becoming. Old, weak...spineless." he laughs, slapping away one of the hands rocketing towards his face before continuing. "You couldn't even _save _me, Batman."

It can't be more than a split second, but something happens to the Bat.

Recognition?

Knowledge?

He doesn't know, now, but abruptly the Bat is coming down on him faster, quicker and angrier than Clayface has ever seen from him before, blows spiraling and twisting and slapping and oh, Jesus, he's actually bruising and then...

"You desecrated a child's grave," the Bat hisses, voice like nails on a chalkboard. "You actually–" _whump_, he hits Clayface solidly on the temple and if he had bones they would've broken–"_dare _to come here, to me, to my graves and defile the last resting place of a child."

Roles are reversing quicker than what should be deemed necessary. No longer in control, no longer watching the pain flicker across the Batman's usually blank face, Matt Hagen discovers that he made a mistake.

He didn't know the name. The secret identity, the man behind the mask.

To him and the others, it was always the Bat or the Batman or the monster that lurked in the shadows of Gotham.

It was never a _man _or human being. Never one of the living, breathing creatures that Clayface eventually grew so accustomed to.

The Riddler never gave him that name, that man behind the mask, and now Matt Hagen, body dissolving in the rain and facade falling apart, realizes that he's been played.

If only he had known the name.


	4. WARNING: KEEP OUT

**"WARNING: KEEP OUT"**

_(Catwoman)_

She'll admit.

She likes him.

A lot.

Maybe a lot more than what is necessary, but she _does _like him. And, despite their differences, despite their–um–lifestyles, she appreciates that he's around. Even when she's on the wrong side of the fence, he makes sure she doesn't get hurt.

And she does the same for him.

So yeah, she likes him.

A lot.

But now she's beginning to wonder.

Selena knows from experience–from her birth in the Red Light district to her existence in the upper-crust of society–that all humans have certain switches that should never be touched, switches that have a large, neon sign glimmering above them with a very clear "WARNING: KEEP OUT".

Bad things happen when someone flips one of these switches. Whether it be on accident or on purpose, turning the toggle from 'off' to 'on' blows everything out of the water.

She knows that _he _has many switches, and though she's barged her way through more than a few locked brain-closets with the "WARNING" sign written on them to experiment with boundaries, there are a few places in their relationship she knows never to go to.

Tonight, standing in the rain with her shoulder bleeding and her vision becoming blurry, Selena realizes that this is one of those places.

Rage is an incredibly volatile thing; under the right conditions it can become a greatly utilized weapon. Under the wrong conditions, well...you get murder. Death, destruction, mayhem–they're the solutions you get when rage is mixed improperly in its basic stages.

It's what's happening now.

Someone didn't mix the Bat's rage formula correctly, and now it's costing him.

And her.

And everyone else in the alley.

This darkness, this rain and the strange paradox of hot and cold welling out from the bullet in her shoulder reminds her too much of the Red Light District, where she saw more than a few of her girls accidently flick the wrong switch and lose everything because of it.

There's Cassie–fourteen-years old, sweet smile, blond-hair and green eyes.

They found her dead in a dumpster after she flipped one man's switch.

Alison–nineteen, tougher than hell and almost as smart as Selena.

Nearly burned beyond recognition.

But breathing.

And then there's Selena herself, twenty-three and laughing as she wrapped an arm around the stranger in the bar and whispered in his ear, _"It'll cost ya." _

He replied just as softly, _"Not as much as it's gonna cost you, honey."_

Too many formulas were fucked up in that hell-hole. Too many chemistry equations turned upside down and shaken in and out until they barely resembled what they were originally written up as.

The Bat's formula is getting fucked.

And she knows that if she doesn't stop it now, it'll be too late for both of them.

Lightning cracks above, provoking her into a position of movement. Selena grits her teeth and tries to move towards the barely perceptible white face and black shadow at the far end of the alley.

The distance of twenty-yards closes down to fifteen. Selena fights to keep her gaze straight ahead, not moving from what she knows is the Bat and the Clown Prince, but can't help but look down as another flash of lightning illuminates a thatch of blond hair only inches away from where she's walking.

Selena tries to get a look at the face, but something tells her to stop and keep going.

She already knows who it is.

_Elliot, _her brain rattles off as if from a file. _Doctor Thomas Elliot, graduate of Harvard, chief surgeon of medicine. _

_Elliot, _she tries again, focusing now, _ Thomas Elliot, close if not best friend of Bruce Wayne. _

_Elliot. Thomas Elliot. _She glances at the corpse and forces herself to push ahead. _Dead as a door-nail with a bullet through his head. _

_Elliot. Thomas Elliot. _She starts to pick up the pace._ The volatile part of the rage equation. _

She's running faster, now, pulling her left hand away from her shoulder and instead reaching for her whip. Already realizing what's happening, that someone did this on _purpose _to try to pull the Bat down into madness, she pulls out the whip and cracks it loudly, wincing at the pain that snakes through her entire system at the movement.

The Bat stops only for a second and turns slightly to acknowledge her from the corner of an eye.

Another snap, and this time Selena accompanies the sound with a scream.

"Stop!"

Even in the darkness she can recognize that he's not listening. The split-moment in time where he turned halfway to see her vanishes as he shakes his head–_no, never–_and moves back to his prey, ignoring Selena and her whip and maybe even the truth.

_You've been duped, Batsy. _

"Batman," she yells, closer now and bringing the whip back up to strike, "you have to stop thi–"

In a kaleidascope of images, all disconnected and fragmented, Selena can only remember him pivoting slightly on a heel–one hand still firmly gripping the Joker's neck–and strike out at her. She dimly recalls taking a step back, balancing, trying to move _with the blow, _but then pain exploded out of her shoulder and she collapsed to the cement, gasping for air.

Selena's world begins to dim as the agony in her shoulder slowly takes over consciousness, but she still can hear the Commissioner come running up the alley, hear his footsteps slosh their way past her and move towards the Bat.

He draws his gun, but unlike Selena, he keeps a safe distance away.

He talks, but unlike Selena, he keeps himself quiet.

He motions, but unlike Selena, the conviction in his voice speaks deeper.

These two understand each other in a way that even Selena can't, ways in which the "WARNING: KEEP OUT" sign only applies to her.

Selena begins to understand that as the Bat turns away from the Joker–who she prays is only unconscious–and moves towards her. She begins to understand that as she is picked up like a sack of potatoes and carried over a shoulder.

And she begins to understand that when the Commissioner and the Bat look at each other and the Bat says quietly, "Thank you."

The world is fading, but vaguely Selena begins to think back to the opera.

Antagonist, protagonist, hero, villain...roles are switching and lines being reversed as the director plays with them all like puppets.

This time, the Bat wasn't an enemy.

But what about next time?

WARNING: KEEP OUT.

Maybe she should pay better attention to the warning signs.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to **The Red Jester **for your review. It was much appreciated.

:) Enjoy.


	5. Takes a Lot to Make Them Speechless

**Takes a Lot to Make Them Speechless**_  
_

_(Harley Quinn)_

Opera never did suit her fancy.

In fact–now that she's thinking about it–Harley has _always _hated opera. Even as a kid she couldn't _stand _that terrible shrieking and oscillating and "veegalo."

Her father loved it, but he always was trying to make himself 'higher' class. It couldn't work for him, though; a lower-class alcoholic can't become high class when he drinks all the time, forgets his own name and works as a desk jockey for Wayne Enterprises.

...but Harley had to give him an 'A' for effort. He tried a helluva lot more than others.

But anyway: Harley can't stand opera. It might be one of the reasons that she's even _more _excited to bust in on this party and blow the joint wide open.

The other reasons she's doing this are beyond her comprehension.

Honestly, Harley doesn't know what Mr. J does most of the time. She loves him, worships him, and some say she entirely depends on him, but she really doesn't understand what they're doing. Mr. J's the thinker, Harley's the doer. It's how it's always been and how it always will be. Harley has no need to ask questions, so she rarely ever does.

But this whole opera thing has her thinking.

They first met Hush about a month ago, not too long after Mr. J decided it was time to get back into the money business. It hadn't been a part of the plan that night–after stealing from one of the upper-crusts of Gotham, anyway–but it happened.

He caught them right outside the gates of the man's house, lightly jumping over the fence and into the bushes. Harley hit the ground first–she always does, always acts like security–and after she made sure that it was safe, she chirped once at Mr. J to do the same.

But in that split second–that blink of an eye where she turned her attention away from the darkness around her, looked up above and nodded–a ghost separated from the shadows. Harley barely had time to scream when _bam, _the world went black.

When Harley came to a couple of minutes later–and oh, her head hurt like hell–she was still in the bushes (_rather rude of Mr. J_, she muttered), but she could hear quiet discussion not too far away.

"And you're telling me what?"

The nasally tone, sharp and accented, told her that the question was being asked by her beloved.

"I'm telling you that your methods are failing. I'm telling you that I can help you."

Whispery, soft and eerie like the Scarecrow, but strangely different...Harley could say very easily that she didn't know who this was.

"Oh, really?"

Ah. Mr. J's most famous line. Harley twisted herself around as quietly as possible and began crawling towards an outlet. This was the part–she tried not to grunt as a thorn snagged her pants–where he gassed this creep-o. She had to see this.

Blue-light enveloped the long field that made up this upper Gothamite's driveway, and standing just off to a corner stood Mr. J and the Whisper Man, conversing. Harley made sure that her eyes were just through a gap in the bushes so she could see properly before she went stock-still and waited.

He had given the cue. Where the hell was the punch?

Nowhere. As quick as Harley had slithered her way over here and gone down into an observing-position, her beloved had descended, too...and he had done so much quieter and quicker than she.

...not to mention more painfully.

Mr. J was no longer standing upright, and instead was kneeling, one arm held high above his head with the hand yanked back cruelly. Harley made a motion to lunge out and get Mr. J, but something inside her told her _not yet. _Told her to _wait. _

Harley did.

"Your cues are too obvious," Whisper Man said softly, voice carrying a tinge of contempt, "and far too obnoxious." He applied more pressure on the hand and the Joker hissed quietly, shaking his head.

"What–" the man hissed quietly, voice low, "do you want?"

"You," Whisper Man said, still as soft and as eerie as the night, "and your girl."

Mr. J froze. Whisper Man noticed the motion and chuckled gently.

"What? You think I don't know that she's in the bushes, listening right now? Your dependent girlfriend isn't as stealthy as she'd like to seem–right Harley?"

It was then that Harley reasoned she had two–okay, three--options. She could race out, screaming like a banshee and flying like an acrobat, and try to take the man out, she could sit in the bushes and act like she _really _hadn't gotten up yet, or she could simply walk out and try to take this calmly.

Whisper Man took away her first two options rather quickly.

"Trying to take me out wouldn't be in your best options," he said softly, and she shivered, "and acting like you're not there wouldn't work either. Do either of those," and then Whisper Man finally turned, "and I'll break his wrist."

Harley used to think that the scariest looking bastards in all of Gotham were Scarecrow and Two-Face. No matter how many times she saw them, heard about them or even knew about them, there was something about _them _that freaked her out far more than her own beloved. It was in the eyes...there was a creepy, dangerous and unsettling knowledge that lurked just below the surface that told her so many things she didn't want to know. So many things that she thought people couldn't make her remember, make her relive again.

The eyes that stared at her now, surrounded by layers upon layers of bandages, told her the same exact thing. In the soft light of the moon, shadowed by profile and lit only from the inside, the green eyes that burned into Harley brooked no argument and told no lies.

_They knew. _

It was like being hypnotized by a venomous snake you knew would bite you, and even though Harley knew that she was walking into a bad situation and that Mr. J would be pissed, she crawled out of the bushes, brushed herself off, and stood.

Waiting.

Whisper Man acknowledged her for a moment longer–her skin crawled and her scalp itched–before he turned his attention back to Mr. J and released his hand, his arm. They fell to the ground with a thud, and the Joker followed shortly thereafter.

Whisper Man took a step back and glanced once again towards Harley.

"Good girl," he said, wet silk on concrete and nails just barely skimming a chalkboard. "It's good you know what's in your best interests."

He nudged the ground near the Joker's head.

"But do you, Mr. J?"

The Joker looked up, hands twitching and face bared in a snarl...and nodded.

Harley's fear grew as she realized that her man was speechless.

It took a lot to make him speechless.

A lot.

Whisper Man nodded, seemingly pleased with the response, and then stooped slightly–he was tall, built dangerously–offering Mr. J a hand. The Joker looked at the gloved digits warily before extending his left–not right, not the abused–hand slowly.

Whisper Man pulled him up on to his feet, and waited.

Mr. J took a moment to compose himself, straightening the black sweater–they had agreed that for now they needed to keep out of the Bat's hair and out of his suspicions, namely avoided the costumes and outfits that for so long had been their namesakes–and black beanie on his head before he took a deep breath.

"What can I call you?" he asked finally, eyes staring straight into Whisper Man's without flinching.

"Hush." Whisper Man replied. "That's all you need to know."

Now hanging on the catwalk above the stupid opera with its stupid singing and stupid fat and rich people, Harley wonders back to Hush and Mr. J and even herself and she–this is one of the very few times she'll ever do this–finds that she's scared.

She looks over the audience which has yet to discover it's screwed, glances over towards the other side of the walk way her beloved waits, face painted into a macabre grin, and then looks at her own hands and the firearm clenched in her hand and for once in her life, Harley questions.

Hush had told her and them in his wet-silk tones that he was going to help them get the Bat, get rid of him permanently and give them a permanent status in Gotham, away from Arkham.

He told them that they'd all play their roles in the play, and if they did it correctly, then everything would go right and the Bat would be dead.

But how?

How would freaking out a bunch of rich old people and sticking them up for cash–when Harley just knows police would come crashing in within minutes (not to mention the Bat, and Jesus, she thought that they'd be avoiding him)–be a part of the master plan? How would this acting, this script-reading and gun-toting masquerade be a part of the master plan?

Mr. J gives the cue, Harley clutches her gun tightly before swinging down to release mayhem, and almost as if–as if by clockwork–the Cat and the Bat appear.

Harley shoots the Cat, the Cat pursues.

Joker shoots no one, the Bat pursues.

_We're not a part of the master plan_, Harley realizes as she fires at the Cat and scores a direct hit in the shoulder.

_We're only decoys._

Joker shoots no one, the Bat pursues.

_Yup. Decoys. _


	6. Third Time's a Charm

**Third Time's a Charm**

_(Tim Drake)_

He's third in a short list of screw-ups and derelicts but fifth (_he counts down in his head, Bruce, Barbara, Dick, Jason–and pauses at five, knowing the name'll be Tim)_ in a long list of rebels and problem-children.

Third in a list of possible successors.

Third in a probable list to make it out right.

Gee, can you feel the pressure?

Bruce has only told him briefly about Jason Todd--more or less leaving it up to Barbara and Alfred to fill in the dirty details–and Dick, for once in his illustrious career, gave no opinion. When Tim tried asking him about it, about the notorious Jason Todd and Round Two of let's-create-a-non-rebellious-sidekick, he simply tightened his jaw, shook his head and then stared directly at Tim and said: "Watch yourself."

Tim knows it wasn't meant as a threat, meant more as a warning to _him _to watch the big-bad world, the Old Man and even himself, but even when he thinks back at the words, something in his gut twists and growls.

_Watch yourself. _

Against what? For what? Why?

So many secrets in the Batclan, in Wayne Manor and in Bruce Wayne. All these locked doors, shadowy rooms, smoky corridors...hell, maybe Tim doesn't even _want _to know half the shit that frequents his life. Maybe ignorance is bliss.

Ask no questions, tell no lies...it worked for half of Gotham and even some of the Batclan for a while.

Oh, yeah. But then that bliss backfired and bit them all in the ass.

Hmm. Guess that makes it official.

(Tim writes in his brain, in a small corner where no one will regard him strangely _ignorance equals ass-biting. _It's succinct enough, and he reasons that no one will ever find it.)

Anyway, back to the number in point:

Myths and fairy tales and urban legends seem to have all specified three as the lucky number.

(that and seven, but Tim is doubtful that Bruce will keep bringing in problem children to become crime-fighters. As it is, he seems to have a problem with the Batclan number of offspring settled in at a–is it a coincidence?–very comfortable three.)

Two? They don't talk about two much, and one is always the beginning of the end and the end of the beginning.

But three is lucky. You put it with one and no, bad things start happening (13) but three by itself (three witches of Macbeth, three little piggies and beware the idles of March aside)and it's a good number.

It even rolls of the tongue gracefully.

Three.

Trente.

Tres.

Drei.

See? With that cool of a word, a place in fairy tales and in superstitions, Tim would like to consider himself lucky.

Of course, now staring at Unlucky (_dead, _a part of him shrieks, _dead as a DOORNAIL_) Number Two, this self-reassuring back-pat might just be the thing that kills him.

After it kills the Bat, that is.

Detective Tim knows instinctively that the creature masquerading as Jason Todd, a.k.a. Red Hood (_Oh, like _Robin Hood_! the dumb teenager part of him exclaims in realization, and he tells it to shut-up) _can't really exist, can't be alive and by the force of science itself is quite dead, but even then, facing old ex-Robin is unnerving.

_Watch yourself _suddenly comes back and slaps him full in the face.

_This _is what he could become. This monster, this ghost that taunts Bruce every waking night of his life and tells him that he _failed_ the boy, failed Gotham and failed his parents.

Sure, Tim can't hear what's being said–not after Bruce told him to stay back and stay out–but he understands body language well enough to know when jeers are being thrown, and when rage is slowly building up, block upon volatile block until it all becomes too much. The Bat is a whirlwind of kicks and punches, but both he as well as Tim realize that his opponent is bending around these moves with a frightening ease.

The Batman is the best. Period.

...but this Jason Todd is no slouch, either.

_Watch yourself. _

_Don't worry, Dick, _Tim says, voice nearing sarcasm, _I'm watchin'. _

It's terrible, really, to only be allowed to sit on the sidelines and watch a nightmare play out in front of your eyes. To some extent, it's like watching a movie with a predictable, terrible, gut-wrenching ending; you tell yourself that _you saw it comin' _but even then your eyes never leave the screen.

To another extent it's akin to...to watching a train wreck.Or murder.

_Or, hell, _dumb teenage part of him grumbles in, trying to be a smart-ass,_ even that awful Barney show. _

Tim tells himself that the Bat will fight his way out of this one–he's sure of it–and win, and at heart he understands that's all that matters, but internally the realization comes that there's an angry ex-Robin out there who's giving it his all to whack the flying rodent.

He knows that the composition of the past Robins has been different, from Dick–the great and the first–who had his parents killed at a young, impressionable age, to Jason (who he knows nothing about), to Tim himself, who figured out long before it was necessary that the identities of Batman and the Boy Wonder were really not that secret at all.

Nonetheless, the fact exists that all of them changed over the duration of their tutelage with the Bat.

Dick? Still happy, still humorous and generally optimistic, but there is that undercurrent of rage and bitterness that follows him everywhere. Hidden behind the humor, the laughing and the smiles there is an mad young man who feels that Bruce is partially responsible for a lost childhood.

Jason?

...well, he's battling the Bat and taunting him, wounding in ways that only words and memories can manage, so obviously that partnership didn't end well, either.

Barbara told him that Jason was an angry, angry, angry and confused young man. There were things in his head that–unlike Dick–never really functioned properly.

_He had thought of the costume, the city and Bruce's never-ending crusade as a game, _Barb had said from her wheelchair, voice soft and eyes filled with sadness. _It was something that he could do to play out the fury inside him, but it wasn't something he could _feel_. Not something he believed in. _

_It's one reason the Joker got to him_, she had whispered quietly, _and it's the other reason he died. _

Died. Death. Worms in the ground–mmm, fresh compost–cloying sick-sweet odor, misery and the gravestone. Tim wonders vaguely what Jason's epitaph might've been if Bruce hadn't decided that it was to be an honorable one.

_Wasn't meant for the job? _

No...maybe_ Too much angst can kill a boy _or _Two wasn't the luckiest number. _

_Stop it, _the mature part of him commands. _Just--stop it. _

_Okay, _smart-ass-teenager replies. _I'll quit for now. _

And in the meantime, Tim turns back to himself.

_What about you? _Smart-ass Tim whispers cruelly. _What have you become under the Bat?_

Tim thinks.

Remembers.

There's something about Tim that isn't in the other two Robins. Sure, Dick had loving parents–who were, like Tim's mother–eventually stolen from him, and Jason's parents (Tim is assuming here) probably loved him as much as any other kid, but Tim...he knows he's different.

He figured out the Bat and the Bird a long time ago. He realized who they were--and god, a part of him wanted to _be _them--but in the meantime he was raised by parents who completely and utterly loved him. Unlike Bruce and Dick, Tim never had to see his guardians and mentors, friends and family, ripped from him in front of his eyes. His mother died, yes, but Jack Drake was still alive. He wasn't up and walking, but he existed. He didn't know Robin, but he knew of his son, Timothy Allen Drake.

Tim has a father who loved him dearly.

He had a childhood that he remembers fondly.

He has a conscience and an intelligence that he has a feeling will eventually be on par with that of Bruce.

...eventually.

He's not Dick, bitter with the world and to some extent bitter of his life. He's not the ex-Jason Todd, reckless and sure that the costume and the Bat were just games.

He's Tim Drake. The third Robin and the first son of Jack Drake.

Tim turns his eyes nervously back to watch the Bat and the ex-Robin, fingers clenched on a tombstone and limbs wishing to jump in, and then he realizes.

He'll never be the second or the first Robin. There's something apart him that separates his being from those of his predecessors, and it's what makes him _him. _

Third time's a charm, he tells himself.

Third time's a charm.

* * *

**A/N: **Apologies to those who were reading; it seemed that over the weekend that the document manager had a little bit of a difficult time getting on its feet, thus providing an excuse for my late update.

I, uh, have to confess that the only Tim Drake character I know somewhat well is the one from the Animated Series. Unfortunately, to get an idea of the comic Tim Drake/Robin, I had to go to Wikipedia. I think I did an okay job with characterization, but if that turns out to not be the case, please tell me. I could use the help. And yes, I also realize that this chapter didn't really have a lot to do with the general theme of 'betrayal.' That aside, I hope no one's feathers are ruffled.

Once again, thanks to **Makota** for her beaming review. I love when I get such happy comments. :)

Enjoy.


	7. Bitter Pill to Swallow

**Bitter Pill to Swallow**

_(Bruce Wayne)_

No matter how many times his heart is ripped out, his skin flayed and his stomach gnarled into one terrible knot, the pain is still new and surprising.

Betrayal hurts, irrelevant to who administers it.

Some, he reflects, hurt more than others, true. The longer the relations, the deeper the betrayal, but at heart it is the same anguish, same disbelief and same rage no matter how long the involvement lasted.

The Bat hates betrayal. As the inhuman, machine-like part of Bruce Wayne, it sees the emotional pain as a disgusting remnant of human weakness and stupidity and later seethes. Turning to Bruce, it snarls as the realization hits that that the Bat and Bruce Wayne are one, no matter how hard they try to separate.

But it's not just a one way street. For rich, stupid playboy Bruce Wayne, mistakes effect him just as much, driving in the knowledge that the two selves– the Bat and Bruce--trod into each other's lives no matter how hard they try to split.

The dreaded reality is this: Bruce is only human. Human enough to make errors, seek blindly, feel emotion and pain and everything else that so basically defines his species. He's human enough–yes, the World's Greatest Detective–to be duped, even if it is an incredibly rare and frightening occurrence. .

The Bat does give him some leniency at one point; Bruce Wayne was too young to question the authenticity of his friendship with Thomas Elliot when he was only thirteen. He hadn't learned–entirely–that humans can pick up their evil early, and though the boy knew that man, in all his capabilities to destroy and preserve, could ruin his world, he never thought that the kid he played cards with, talked jokingly with and played soccer with could have such a dangerous power.

But kids eventually evolve into adults--into women and men--and in this changing, this growing of tissue structures and emotions and losing of naivety and innocence, they become the things that they either most dreamed of or most feared.

Something in Bruce tells him that Thomas only dreamed of becoming an adult.

It then turns to him and whispers gently that he had felt the same way, too.

_Coincidence, perchance? _

He's heard the "we're not so different" monologue dozens of times, with only a few variations and few tweaks in the script, and incident after incident, villain after villain, it is the same old thing.

Except with Thomas.

That truth terrifies him more than anything else.

Unlike most of the other villains, Hush had been right.

They were alike, or maybe...maybe even more than that. Brothers, twins, light and darkness, good and evil...the perverse twist on the other's destiny and dreams. Nothing is coincidental and the Bat realizes this, understanding that somewhere out there, someone has a fucked up sense of humor.

...of course, he dresses up like a bat night after night and pursues ghosts that should've been put to rest a long time ago, so he might not have any room to talk.

Bruce has balanced very precariously on the line between good and bad since the _Change, _and he knows that there have been more than a few times when someone nudged him just enough to dangerously play with equilibrium. It's only been because he had those around him–spotters like Dick, Alfred, Barbara and her father–that he managed to pull through and save himself.

Even then, something was always compromised; the climb back onto the wire always came more slowly and hesitantly than before, the steel balanced upon seemed less sturdy, the feet more unsure. Assuredness at one's ability came to question, and with it came the horrific thought that the spotters might not be there if there when there's another teeter or fall.

He always climbed back up to the wire, but every single time he had to make that ascent back up something painful inside him twitched.

It twitched again last night on the Docks. It twitched when Hush suddenly became Thomas and when Thomas bared his teeth and told him: "We're not so different, you and I."

It's a painful twitch. He wishes that he had a pill with him that would make it stop.

But then he walks over to the medicine cabinet up in his master bedroom, walks over in the bleak hours of the morning (Babs assures him that "Gotham is still" and Tim works too well to be criticized) and swings open the mirror to glance at all the pain pills. He sees the vitamins (Alfred insists upon them, but Bruce personally thinks they're bullshit) and the other random medicines and that single narcotic that he has vowed he'll never touch.

It's then that Bruce snorts, closes the cabinet and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

And he understands.

No matter what the pill is, if it even _has _a tangible bitterness that stays on the tongue or doesn't, he won't shove it down his throat willingly. He can't even stand the medicine after being injured, fearing he might lose focus, lose the edge he had and lose track of the pain that makes him _real. _

Pain hurts. Truth hurts. Betrayal hurts.

But without them he wouldn't exist. They have made him strong, have hammered down the soft iron and made it hard, cold and unbreakable steel.

Blue eyes watch blue eyes in the mirror carefully, evaluating.

_"We're not so different, you and I."_

Thomas was right, but not in the way he expected. Borne of the same disastrous childhoods, of the same intelligence and same determination, they are eerily similar.

But Bruce has a feeling that Thomas' willingness to swallow pills was a lot more than his own.

Rage. Hate. Disgust. Apathy. Pain.

Thomas took the whole handful of them in his hand and mentally ticked off their ingredients--he would carefully pick Pain out of the pile and place it on the counter top--before throwing his head back and chugging them down. He didn't bother with the water because that was something that he knew–being a doctor and everything–wasn't needed to get the pills to their desired destinations. He didn't bother with considering _what _the ingredients did with him because he was only focused with what they could get currently.

Bruce looked at Rage, Hate, Disgust, Apathy and Pain all nestled in his palm and gleaming in their pretty little capsules–red, white and violet, blue and black–and he stopped.

Pills only alleviate problems temporarily; eventually you'll have to take another one, and then another one, and then another one and then it becomes a deadly addiction.

Bruce is obsessive, and he knows that his counterpart was.

Bruce thinks long-term; Thomas did the same.

But the one difference is that Thomas swallowed Hate and Rage without a second thought, craving for that fuel that they gave him.

He had avoided Pain entirely.

Bruce took Rage, Hate, Disgust and terrifying Apathy and dumped them into the toilet. He didn't leave Pain to contemplate its condition on the counter.

And he had a glass of water next to him.

Blue eyes stare into blue eyes again, glittering with barely disguised observation. Bruce wonders what his reflection would say to him right now, what it would tell him and what it wouldn't tell him if it could, and then blinks.

The tension breaks.

No deep conversations with his reflection. No double-sided mirrors.

It's only him and himself, staring into a reflective surface with the faintest glimmer of humor as he wonders about the twitch in him that just pulled powerfully and the living qualities of a mirror.

_There are none, _the Bat tells him. _Mirrors are very inanimate. _

No Rage, Hate, Disgust and Apathy to swallow.

There's only the dreadful jerk inside him that reminds him that he is _different _from Thomas, and that if it came down to Pain, he would win.

Bruce walks out his bathroom more slowly than he went into it--he pauses a moment to turn off the light, almost forgetting--but the twitch that cuts into him suddenly doesn't seem as bad.

Pain is a terrible pill to swallow, but he knows it divides him from his dark twin. It is what makes him _him. _Keeping him from succumbing to hate and rage and all those filthy things that lurk just below the narrow wire which he balances, it has made him Bruce and has kept him from becoming Thomas.

_We're not so different, you and I. _

Thomas was wrong.

_-Fin_-

* * *

**A/N: **Many thanks to all those who reviewed--it was more than appreciated and certainly helped me keep going with this short (but strangely difficult to write) story/vignette thingy. I hope you enjoyed reading this and that the end was a nice wrap-up.

Cheers,  
LF


End file.
